Oblivion
by Skydork
Summary: "Once you've reached the precipice of insanity, there's no turning away from it. You can deny what you've done, but it won't change the truth or the outcome." [Star Wars crime AU, loosely based on Murder One/Major Crimes. Slow Build.]
1. retrogression

**Oblivion**

 **i. retrogression.**

* * *

 _"Want you so bad I can taste it, but you're nowhere to be found._  
 _Now take a drug to replace it, or put me in the ground."_

* * *

There was an exhaustion settling over his body. It dug into his bones, so deep that he could hardly feel anything aside from sorrow, _despair,_ even. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, not even noticing the bands around his wrists, so tightly cuffed they were chaffing. Looking down at them even longer, Anakin could imagine peeling the skin away, the mass of angry reds and purples beneath, drops of crimson spilling from his skin.

The walls were cement. Dark grey, lifeless, _unwanted._ The only courtesy to his reality, his existence in this space of solitude, was a two-way mirror covering the expanse of stone in front of him. It was… disorienting, his reflection distorted somehow, looking more monstrous than human. Burns stained his arms, barely healed, an almost impuissant feeling the more he flexed his hands, the more he waited for something other than this goddamn silence.

Taciturn. The room was spinning again, all over, unsettling and confusing, a twisting maze of mirrors and cement and metal tables that felt so strange, so surreal and unwanted, _I didn't do it you sick fucks, I didn't do anything, let me out!_

There was a man in front of him. Just sitting there, his auburn hair almost immaculate in spite of the fans blowing air through the room so roughly it was suffocating. And he was so illusionary, _elusive_ , staring with something akin to… serenity? Surely there was no such thing in a tempestuous place such as this, so greyscale it was driving the young man further and further toward the precipice, the _breaking point._

He couldn't even make out the tears on his cheeks, rivulets of sorrow, gripping the metal with his bound hands, so tense that marks could've been imprinted in the surface. There was a roar in his head, deafening, capricious _rage_ storming his body until Anakin was throwing back the chair and pulling himself to his feet, leering at the man, screaming.

"I didn't _kill_ her! _I didn't fucking kill Padme!"_ The shouts that wrung themselves from his throat were distorted, collapsing the aura of serenity around the man as he stood, reaching forward as if to calm him, the hands suddenly gripping his arms until Anakin shoved, threw him off, thrashing and quivering from the anger, the contempt.

 _They can't keep me here. Not anymore. I have to grieve, I didn't kill her, let me see her, my children, my Padme, let me see her or I swear by everything in this world I will obliterate you-! Die, die, get away from me, get out of my head-_

A crash. There was calm, then, silence once more, and he was still shaking, still looking over the man in front of him- the interrogator, his shirt torn now in a way that was hardly appropriate, still gripping his shoulders, resting hands on him with something that resonated peace…

Anakin sat down.

"I understand your grievances," there was a pause, as he continued, tone completely gentle, sympathy in the words. "I am not here to harm you."

Why did that make his anger quell? Why was he suddenly so… _empty,_ as if life-force itself had been drained from his bones, leaving only the exhaustion from before, rooted deep in his chest… slackened by this man's presence?

"You can't do this to me… I… I wouldn't. I wouldn't hurt her- kill me, kill me, I'd rather die…"

"You can be honest with me… the sorrow that passes between us will pass from you as well. I'm sorry for your loss."

"What do you care? You don't know me, you don't understand what I feel. All of you… officers, interrogators, investigators… you're , like a machine…" Anakin sucked in his breath, shaking now, hands flat on the pristine surface of the single table.

"You would know," a wry laugh came from the man, light. _Like the rest of him._ "I hear you were quite good with machines."

"The military will do that for you," Anakin answered, before trying to shake himself out of it. He wasn't here for small talk, and this man… this man knew nothing. He would leave, as the rest had, ambivalent and doubting of his story, his innocence… his love for his wife. "Why are you here?" He questioned, finally, the sharp glare meeting a light, even gaze for mere seconds.

"I'm here to validate your claims," there was a moment where a smile passed over the other's lips, just barely, before pulling a key from his pocket, reaching forward to undo Anakin's cuffs. "You may call me Obi-Wan."

"That doesn't answer my question, Obi-Wan."

"I'm your lawyer."

* * *

 _Red._

That's how the story is written- it's a book made on skin lined with words of blood, thick red trails that cover each page, leaving it exposed, unprotected, made to be read by everyone. The story, the story of blood, is one that gets torn apart each time it's told, leaving ghastly scars in the heads of those who open it.

They say it belongs to him. They say that _he, Anakin Skywalker, was found over her body, was found soaked in those despairing shades of red, was found with a blade in hand and wrists half slashed to pieces._

Lies. _Liars._ Wasn't every story, every tale the world had ever been familiar with, spun from _falsities?_ Falsities and obscurities, lies, _disgusting, despicable, **liars** \- you're wrong you're wrong how could I not know what's in my own head get out get out of my head you're ruining me, I'm in agony, this **pain** …!_

And still, even now, there's an outline of faint white lines traced along his forearm, still rashed and shot around the edges. If Anakin looks hard enough, he can see them bleeding- can see the red spilling from them and draining from his body, drizzling across the floor with such a bright sheen and _it couldn't be all bad, could it?_

They're closed now.

 _She's gone now._

His Padme. Padme, with her long, brown curls that framed her face so elegantly, her soft, pale skin, so smooth that whenever he touched it he swore it was more a statue than a person, her brilliant eyes that glimmered with brightness and wisdom, eyes he could drown in, deep like bottomless pits boring straight into his heart…

The file is being slammed onto the table before him, and the eyes he meets are just as dark, but… lackluster. Soulless, empty eyes that scorch his skin like flame and make him want to burn himself up, smoulder under the weight of it all. And it's an awful weight indeed, if it's true, if it isn't-does the truth matter anymore? It's a terrifying thought, one that makes him tremble, and Anakin would like nothing more than to tear at his own wrists, open them up like before, shot to the head would be better he doesn't have a gun no pills no pills everything hurts.

It's funny that the first thing out of his mouth is "Where's Obi-Wan?" Not _"I didn't kill her,"_ not _"I don't give a fuck what you do to me,"_ not _"oh great, another file,"_ or even _"thanks for coming back, Officer Windu, you can only stare at grey walls so long before you start wanting to chop someone up. I mean, that's what I did, right? Could be you next."_

"Kenobi is busy for the moment," the man leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the desk, before he sat down and straightened out his jacket. "You have me instead."

"No 'hello'? Or a 'thanks for waiting?'" Anakin rolled his eyes, slouching back in the chair, half tempted to kick his legs up on the table. "Nice to see you too, Mace."

It was nearly cheeky- nearly, not half of what it had been before, before the incident and before Padme was killed, before there was all this red that crossed over into everything he saw and everything he did… Nearly wasn't going to cut it anymore. Hell, if anything was going to cut anything, it would be him ripping a hole in some officer's shirt or punching through that two-way mirror!

Anakin sighed, his eyes shutting, rubbing his brow before blinking a few times to try and clear his head. But there was no clarity here, not like this- there was only cement and blood and Windu and death and folders and _you fucking liars, get out of my sight._

He conceded. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

 **Black.**

This time it's dark- there's nothing but darkness upon _darkness,_ layers of destruction that fill the gaps between his vision and his thoughts, bearing down on him with such malice it's hard to anticipate. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, Anakin thinks there's a word for it- a word for all of this… for his own despondent behavior, that which crosses a fine line between sanity and insanity, bounces off the corners of reality and back into fantasy…

 _Vexation._

There are pinpricks in his mind, like holes drilled through his skull, ones filled with light for the briefest of moments before fleeting away again, leaving nothing but a greater displeasure at facing the world before his eyes when they open. It's a joy to be asleep, a gift, and when he's unconscious, he can hear her laughter ringing in his ears, see that smile that lights up the fragmented feelings with a jovial persona he misses too much for words.

He imagines waking up next to her again, perhaps to Luke's screaming or Leia's crying from across the room, the way her hair falls over her shoulder as she crooks her head just enough to look at him… **gone.** _No, no, gone all of it gone don't understand it's not real you're a psychopath you're a murderer-_

 **Black.**

* * *

 _ **He claws at his own skin like a monster.**_

The flesh feels so dry and scabbed over that peeling it off would hardly be a feat, much less an accomplishment to boast about. Not when it's burned, seared, lifeless on his bones, so close to being gone completely the more his mind sways in accordance with Padme's voice- _sweet, lovely Padme, what have I done?_ \- and his lungs drain themselves of air, encompassed with the rest of him…

 _Drowning._ But this time, he's drowning in heat, and there are long marks, gashes in his pale flesh that are too pertinent to cover up again, too bold to ignore. He's pushing it away, the heat, foggy and overflowing, his skin rough and drenched by a thick layer of sweat that keeps pooling on his brow and clinging to his face, his matted hair and unkempt prison jumpsuit, everything askew.

It's endless, overbearing, a thousand stones piled on top of his prostrate form, pushing _down, down, down…_ into his chest, into his heart until he remembers how to _bleed_ , until everything remembers _how to die,_ **Padme,** _I'm dying_ , **Padme,** _choking, getawayfromme!_

And then he's being submerged and all that's left is ice around him, building up, ice that's so frigid it might as well be made from his own tears. Anakin can hardly remember what it felt like, before. He can't remember touch or kindness or sympathy, can hardly remember his name, half the time, aside from the name people keep calling him, something he can't remember, it won't click in his head…

 _Darth?_

 **Dark.**

His nails aren't in his skin anymore and all he remembers is the feeling of being asleep, that sincere moment of relief that had finally settled within him when he thought it was over… he should've been gone. Now there were pristine white bandages wrapped over his arms, and his hands were shaking as he held them out in front of him, reaching toward a reality that would never come to fruition.

A reality where Padme was alive .

 _A reality where Anakin was dead._

* * *

There aren't any cuffs this time. Instead of cuffs, there's bandages, layered over skin that's been so desecrated it hardly feels like skin anymore. No, it's more like… a carcass, rotting away from infection or plague… from the iniquity that purges the silence and drains it into illusion.

It falls away with a single word.

"Morning."

 _Is it really morning again?_ There's nothing in his cell, not a window, not a single pleasantry that would allow him to reminisce on time spent outside of this dimly lit cage, this prison that is tailored more to his mind than any torture would be. And perhaps it is torture, of a sort, the ultimate torture, locked up with the key thrown away for all existence…

"They threw me in a hole and threw away the hole," Anakin muses, and it allows a laugh to part from his lips once more, a hand flying up and tangling in his hair carelessly, the corners of his lips quirking from cynical mirth.

"I've been told freedom is the greatest of illusions," Obi-Wan replied, his arm outstretched slightly on the table. There's no folder this time, no notepad, nothing at all to indicate why he's here.

"Oh, yes." Anakin answers, leaning forward and placing his hands in front of him, folded and clasped together, barely an inch from Obi-Wan's face. If the situation had been any less dire, the position would've looked obscene- now it was just a lunatic leering at a lawyer. "They do seem quite good at projecting that one. Walking around while the rest of us are wasting away."

"Perhaps we're all just floating in an abyss," the older man nearly smiles, softly, almost gentle, the same as everything else about him seemed to be. "Society is nothing if not a mishmash of idiosyncrasy."

"Or just plain idiocy." Anakin returns to his previous position, crossing his arms over his chest, glancing directly at the man's face, gaze burning when it clashed with Obi-Wan's yet again. "What makes you so different than the rest of them?"

"Experience, perhaps," Obi-Wan shrugs, and- _ah, yes_ \- there comes the briefcase, on top of the table, opened just enough that Anakin can make out a few short notes organized into pristine stacks, a pair of glasses in a small case. The thought of Obi-Wan wearing glasses doesn't sit right with him- if anything, it just seems odd. Out of place. "Or maybe I'm afflicted by the same insanity you are."

"They should know better than to put two madmen in a room."

"Two madmen in a room can get more accomplished than an entire team of organized administration," Obi-Wan says, quirking an eyebrow in a way that nearly projects philosophy. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"According to Mace Windu, I can't _agree_ with anything," Anakin shrugged, arms falling to his sides now. "You gonna let me see those papers or what?"

"In due time, young one." And there it is- unlikely, uncanny, disorganized… a hint of _emotion_ that doesn't pertain simply to the greater good. _Why do you laugh with me?_ For all that is good (or perhaps, _bad_ ) in the world, Anakin can't figure it out. Obi-Wan, this man, was undeniably strange. And different.

Anakin Skywalker can't help thinking that it's tempting in a way most sublime. Curious, even.

Obi-Wan is placing papers on the table now.

"Your statements will be confidential and taken into consideration accordingly for use in the courtroom. I am not here to try and undermine you, nor am I here to sabotage your case," Anakin looks at him surprised, and Obi-Wan replies in kind, "I can see the mistrust of me you have written across your face, Anakin. I'm simply confirming your questions."

"I thought you were supposed to be asking the questions."

"If I ask, will you answer?" Obi-Wan smiles, simply, when Anakin shrugs, looking away again, almost stubbornly. "As I thought."

"I'll talk to you… under one condition."

"And what would that be?"

Anakin smirks. "I want a cell with a window."

* * *

 **AN:** Welcome to another AU story from me. Haven't done one of these since my old PMMM days, so... seeing how this goes. Updates on this might actually be quick, but no promises. That being said, reviews give me the motivation to keep going, so if you'd be kind enough to leave a line, it's much appreciated. Hope you're all hooked in for this wild ride.


	2. contrition

**Oblivion**

 **ii. contrition**

* * *

 _"You got the scissors from the drawer, you never dug so deep before.  
If I stop trying, we start dying..."_

* * *

The days blur together now.

It's been such a long year, and so tiring that Obi-Wan hardly knows to do with it. At the present moment, he's sitting inside a dark room, a single light flickering over his desk, skimming through files and police reports and- _ah, yes,_ there it was.

He was an enigma, Anakin Skywalker, as much an enigma as Qui-Gon had been when Obi-Wan met him, many years earlier, so long it seems like a past life. He still has the nameplate he took from his office, sitting tucked away in a drawer so that whenever he opens it for a pen, he sees. And he _remembers._

Obi-Wan remembers so much now, despite how many years have passed and how much space there was between it all. It had been a case, a single, trivial case that had ripped his life apart, made him nearly break from the uncertainty and the inevitability of the outcome. He could remember a voice, screaming, his hands fisting in a jumpsuit, pulling and shouting and clawing at skin, digging nails into dark arms and the eyes that followed him in amusement through it all… it made him sick, even now.

But he remembers. _The only time he'd ever lost it._

And now, looking over Anakin's case file, he sees so many parallels it's terrifying. The loss of someone beloved to his client, more than anything, the attack on the police officers, the wrists he'd tried to slit in an act of despair, a melancholy so deep nothing could fix it. He sighs, for a moment, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard, shaking his head in confusion before flipping the page.

And there it was, gory details in all their glory, details he hadn't yet asked for and wasn't prepared to think about. It struck questions in his head, nerves in his body- _did Anakin remember?_ Was he the root of a tragedy or simply the affected?

 _In due time,_ Obi-Wan thinks. _Nothing is ever certain without circumstantial proof._

* * *

It was little more than a jumbled mess anymore. If Obi-Wan could weed through his own head, perhaps he'd figure out where the obsequious nature of his insanity had started- even now, there was no way of verification, no way of determining the consequence of his instability, of his… _selfishness._

He felt **selfish.** And perhaps that's what's had him staring blankly at a cup of black coffee sitting on the table before him, nearly taunting, untouched. He feels selfish for being out here, for being alive, when so many people are dying around him, when he has a client pleading innocence stuffed into a jail cell a few miles away.

It's unnerving to him- as inconsequential as it should be, there's a pang of something in his chest, something… _morose._ Almost dark. No matter how much he tries to purge himself of it, no matter how he tries to argue, it's still there, echoing like the beat of a drum that grates on one's nerves until their head is splitting from the sound.

He thinks of Anakin, thinks of what he'd said, spoken of, so haughty it was nearly mirthful when they'd seen each other. _Two madmen in a room._

 **Two madmen.**

Obi-Wan has never heard anything more true.

* * *

He looks at the chaos of the case and something in his chest flutters. Obi-Wan isn't sure of the last time he's felt such sympathy for a client- isn't sure of the last time he felt much of anything. Living has been more a handful than a blessing, with a chasm of blackness, a pit of apathy carved into his chest, right where his heart had been. Quinlan had called it his ' tin box', the thing he'd tried to replace his feelings with, seal them in so they couldn't escape.

And perhaps it isn't just the case- perhaps Anakin sparked something, but it's merely a twinge of empathic need. There is nothing really, nothing to say that the root of all this is a client pleading innocence, a _nother one, one who could turn at any given instant, make him suffer like Maul did, make him lose his mind and slip into that grip of oblivion, dingy sorrow… **no.**_

No, it's simply _humanity_. It's the nature of it, the human condition, that weighs Obi-Wan down and spreads the fog in his mind. Because he watches and he listens and he sees _hopelessness_ , everywhere he looks. There's no escaping it.

The callousness disturbs him. But Obi-Wan shrugs it off. He tries to seal his disdain for the crime, the destruction and the aggression away, tries to focus on what he's best at- pretending it doesn't affect him. Taking it in one day at a time, enough to convince him that he's making some difference, that he's doing some good. Some sort of… action that's not made as a duty or a sacrifice, simply because.

He opens his case. There are papers, everywhere, organized into neat stacks, filed with dividers and held with paperclips, so close to obsessive-compulsive it's nearly inane. Things are repeatable, things are never different, shades of black and white and the thin veil of grey between them, the one he can somehow never wrap his head around as much as he tries.

It's monotony. And Obi-Wan is finally growing sick of it.

He sucks his breath in, quell the nausea building in his chest, and clicks his pen open.

* * *

 **Regret.** Regret and agony and self-flagellation, _I have failed you, I have failed you, failed everyone, my losses are incomprehensible, I ruined you, killed you…_

Murderer. Obi-Wan looks at the picture on his nightstand, him and a man, older, smiling with an arm around his shoulders, and feels only blankness. An empty slate, empty conscience, but suddenly it's flooded with guilt and it's sinking into him, dulling his senses, not a hint of anything vibrant, the flashes of black and white filling his eyes and his head and then he's falling and there's no resolution.

It's simply a devolution. Devolving into something he cannot put words to, can hardly fathom, the overwhelming thoughts from all the years past coming to fruition once more, like invisible hands around his throat, strangling the life from his body as they force the air from his lungs.

 _The void._

It opens up and he feels like he's drowning all over again, face slammed into the floor, uncomfortably pressed against wooden boards, hands lying at his sides, impuissant, before he's looking around and pulling his head up, and it's the moment of disgrace, the moment of truth, knowing he's little more than his own thoughts that gets to him.

It's impossibly distressing. But for once, Obi-Wan doesn't deny it. He sinks further, eyes slipping shut as the first few rivulets of pain slide over his cheeks.

For the first time in over a year, he _cries._

* * *

"You look like shit," is the first thing out of Anakin's mouth as they sit down at the table again, this time a stark white counter, in a room that's bright with light instead of dull with shadows, his eyes glinting with a glassy quality that Obi-Wan can't place, and he shakes his head, turning away from the younger man to glance toward the window behind Anakin's head. There's a thin layer of glass separating them, hardly enough to prevent the stare they can level to each other, hardly enough to block out Anakin's speech.

"It's been a long week," he faintly chuckles, breathy, like a wisp of sound between them that dissipates in little more than a second. "I hear they gifted you with your window. Congratulations."

"It's called taking on the system and winning, friend."

"And I suppose you're a martyr, placed here to become the voice of reason for prisoners everywhere." It's nearly sarcastic, with the way Obi-Wan says it. Even _teasing. Inappropriate- intolerable._

Anakin laughs and it brightens up the room in an instant. "Well I do have a rather devilish charm when I choose to put it into use."

There's a simple smile when Obi-Wan meets his eyes, a disbelieving gaze and a near amused slight from his lips betraying his thoughts on that remark, only causing Anakin to sneer and roll his eyes in indignation, jokingly punching the glass- and _oh, the handcuffs have finally been removed_ , and Obi-Wan isn't entirely sure how to feel about that.

Yet for some reason he trusts Anakin. There's an unspoken agreement between them that prevents him from feeling fear, even anxiety. No, he feels inexplicably _at ease_ with Anakin, and that's perhaps a bit of a conundrum in and of itself.

"Unfortunately, you can't simply rely on wit to save you during a trial, Anakin."

"Are you saying I need you?" a smirk.

"I'm saying you need to cooperate, young one. You know as well as anyone that wearing yourself thin won't be any condolence or positive reinforcement in a courtroom." His hand touches Anakin's through the small hole in the glass window, lightly asking permission to speak. "I'm sorry for all this. And I apologize for asking, but I'm here to collect an alibi."

Anakin's expression hardens, and Obi-Wan shakes his head. "Why don't we start somewhere else for the time being? Would you like to tell me about Padme?"

"She was…" Anakin's eyes glazed over, distant, before closing as though he was struggling to recall. His hands were clenching into tight fists, nails sinking into his palm as he continued. "She was beautiful… she had a way with words that only recently started to rub off on me. She always woke up early… she had a smile that outshone the sun. She was the best at offering advice, comfort… the type of person to hug you and send you reassuring messages all day. I… I love her. So much." He swallowed roughly, hand moving up to his throat, before looking away, back to the door, pained. "I'm sorry. I can't… I won't talk about her here. Not when they can hear…"

Obi-Wan glanced to the guard. "Can you talk to me?"

"Yes." Anakin replied firmly. "Surprisingly, yes."


End file.
